These Moments
by Noctivaga
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have a secret relationship due to their chosen professions. But some details complicate it a bit more. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**This story is a prompt fill and gift for the lovely PrettyArbitary. She left a rather inspiring one on the Johnwantsit tumblr page and this is how this story came about. I have no idea where this is going or what is going to happen. I'm just probably going to run with it and any sort of kinks or other ideas that spark my imagination as they come my way.**

**WARNING: For drugs, violence, gore, sex, alcohol use/abuse, criminal activity, language, possible dob-con, same-sex relationships, and anything else I come up with I'll warn for later.**

**PROMT: Sherlock and John in a clandestine relationship. Why and how is up for grabs: maybe homosexuality is illegal, or the difference in their social classes is awkward, maybe Moriarty can't know, maybe Mycroft can't know, maybe they just value their damn privacy and don't want to hear about it. Maybe they're just starting it and they want to keep it between themselves till they figure out what they're doing. Maybe there's something kinky about it.**

**Anyway, for whatever reason-danger or awkwardness or getting off on keeping secrets-they keep it on the down-low as much as they can.**

**Read and review! And if you have any possible ideas or prompts to add on to this I'm open to suggestions.**

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Short blunt nails gently scraped down Sherlock's back, enticing him to return to the silken warmth of the bed. He ignored the invitation, continuing to button his crumpled blue shirt that was sporting creases atypical of his usual starched and ironed appearance.

A soft rustle of the sheets behind him indicated his chosen conquest was no longer asleep.

"It's five in the morning," said a drowsy voice. "Come back to bed."

Turning, Sherlock slowly ran his eyes down along the nude male body lying open and tempting. Strong broad shoulders matched with a tone stomach and tapered waist that flowed into solid thighs and sculpted calves. All packaged in light-tan skin that was closer to honey-gold in the dim room. Absently he unfastened his cuffs, appreciating the view. For it was a lovely but rare sight to indulge.

"John, don't." They had this talk numerous times; it tinged their time together with reserve and bitterness. "I can't stay and you know why."

John lifted his head from the pillow, a wry smile tugging at his lips though his brows were bleak. A poor attempt to hide his disappointment and hurt. Even when he was less obvious, using his solider face, Sherlock saw it, he always observed.

"It's nearly dawn," John whispered. The only explanation he was willing to voice but nevertheless true.

Sherlock rolled his sleeves to his elbows, glancing to the window. Paris' kaleidoscope of lights winked in the dark, beyond. It was always easier to slip out undetected when visibility was limited.

"Yes," Sherlock acknowledged.

John swallowed thickly, either unsure what to say or unwilling. His eyes cast down and away.

The illusion was ending, much too fast for either of their taste. It always did, no matter what country they found each other in. When their brief tryst was over Sherlock would always slip away before sunrise like a thief in the night, the warm affirming seclusion of their time together fleeing with him.

"You know Interpol is catching up, don't you?" John speculated, voice soft in the silence of the hotel room. "That's why you're leaving earlier each time."

Sherlock's quicksilver eyes darted to John, flicking over his face and upper body as he rapidly pulled information together. Still dressing himself as he did so, though more slowly now.

"Newspapers?" he guessed, trying to discern where John would have gotten the idea.

The man shook his head, a worried look on his face. "MI6 has linked you to a case I'm working."

Sherlock managed to keep his shoulders from stiffening. Of course they had; his last job had gone tits up when one of the point men had blown the whole operation, to a bloody undercover CIA agent no less. Irritation still crawled in his stomach over it. Even after he took care of the problem.

"Mmm," he offered noncommittally.

The pair of eyes that watched as Sherlock pulled on his black trousers burned at the back of his neck. John was not going to let it go, it seemed. Ever the proper British spy.

"Fine," said John testily, "we'll do it your way. No talk of work."

Sherlock smirked, though hid it as he turned to face John. Crouching down on the rumpled bed, he took John's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head back slightly.

"Good," he rumbled, eyes glittering with lust as he considered John.

Sherlock then dropped a rather heated kiss on John's upturned mouth. His clever tongue slipped past John's lips, seductively running the tip along the roof of his mouth. An arm snaked across the agent's waist, a nimble hand clenched the flesh of his hip with bruising force.

John became pliant in his firm grasp, molding his flushed skin to Sherlock's chest as he was ravished. Calloused fingers tickled the fine hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, a bid to keep him in place. He gladly allowed it, for just a few heartbeats as he sunk his teeth into John's plump bottom lip.

Then Sherlock was prying John off, his strength demanding compliance.

"I'll be in contact," Sherlock promised. He pressed a fleeting kiss to John's forehead, eyes running over his face once more as if to memorize every inch.

"When?" John asked.

"When it's safe. Wouldn't do to have either of us traced to the other."

John nodded, resigned. "I trust one of your homeless networks will be the messenger next time then?"

He didn't receive an answer. Sherlock nipped his bottom lip one last time before disappearing through the door.

A silent promise, worth its weight in gold to John.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

**I know this took a long time to update and it's a very short one. I'm so sorry! But being a uni student has its drawbacks.**

**There was suppose to be more to this chapter but I was waiting to finish the second part before posting. As it turns out, yesterday was Pretty's birthday. I wanted to do something, so decided to cut the chapter in half and post the finished part as a stand-alone chapter instead. It doesn't have any of the smexy good stuff in it (that's the other part). But I figured something was better than nothing. Hopefully I'll blaze through the next part quickly and it will be released . . . soonish? I don't know. We'll see.**

**Also, I had a beta to help read over this chapter, though she never saw this more finished version of it. She still helped immensely and even contributed to an idea or two in this section. A big thank you to Sam (Cakecandykaiser)! All mistakes are my own, and don't reflect on her.**

**Read &amp; Review!**

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**Four Months Later:**

Greg Lestrade stared at the report in his hands. "You've got to be joking."

"Uh, not really sir," said the officer slowly.

"You expect me to believe he stole seven paintings in broad daylight?"

"Yes, sir. From Kunsthal museum in Rotterdam."

"The Netherlands!" Greg bellowed in disbelief. "Four months ago it was the Louvre. And nine weeks before that two stolen passports and drug trafficking in Mexico."

The officer, with the name Sgt. _Carl Powers_ pinned to his uniform, fidgeted. Surprise flashing across his face during Greg's outburst. When it looked like Greg would say no more, Powers went back to passing-out the newly arrived files on yet another case. His movements stiffer.

John watched the exchange quietly from his spot at a large rectangular table. The only one in the entirety of the cramped briefing room they were in. To his back was the far corner, the rest of the room before him.

Powers approached John with an armload of manila folders, a few wobbling toward the top of the stack. He placed three files in front of John and offered a tired smile before moving on to the next person. As Powers passed him by from behind John's fist flexed once.

Opening one of the folders revealed a collection of witness statements for a grand heist. John pressed his lips together, hiding his dread.

MI6 was trying to build a case against the same man as Greg's team from Interpol. They were collaborating now. John's superiors thought they'd get better results this way.

So far the effort did not reach fruition. What it did achieve was frustrating everyone on board with lack of results and dwindling sleep.

Greg appeared how John felt, harassed. There were crescent bruises under his eyes. The tie around his neck was loose, skewed to the side. His gray hair stuck out in odd tuffs where he had been pulling at it, a stress habit John picked up on quickly after meeting the man. Out of everyone involved, he looked the least affected.

"He's escalating," Greg remarked. Then quirked an eyebrow as he scanned the new report further. "Or we're finally catching on to more of his work. Hard to say if it's because we're getting better or it's because he's doing it intentionally."

Sally Donovan, one of Greg's team, opened the pack of pictures from the crime scene just brought in. She splayed them out on the table for everyone to see.

One photo in particular caught her and John's eye. An empty frame hung on a large wall where an expensive Picasso piece use to be. In its place, spray painted in yellow-gold, was a taunting smiley face. In a second photo, a skull mounted on a wall replaced a different display. Its macabre grin a poignant symbol.

Sally tapped it, drawing everyone's attention. "He's not shy about his credit for what he does, or at least for the bigger news worthy stuff."

Greg sat down heavily. As he considered the evidence he licked his lips in thought. He'd only been assigned the case two months ago, about the time MI6 decided to reach out. A fresh pair of eyes sometimes was an advantage; you could pick up on little things others missed. In this case, Greg's lack of familiarity seemed to be a hindrance. John had watched him struggle with it more than once already.

"Right," he said, sounding lost. "So why take credit? This only makes it worse for him."

Sally shook her head. "From a legal perspective it does. There must be something he gets out of it, or wants to accomplish by doing this. Remember, he is a genius."

Greg looked skeptical about the "genius" bit. John could sympathize. It was hard to believe the man was that strategic, that perceptive . . . until you met him.

Greg turned to John. "What do you think, then? Have any ideas?"

"He's working his way around the world, showing off," John said with conviction.

"That narcissistic is he?" asked Greg in a mumble.

John glanced at the map tacked to the wall adjacent to him. It was littered with colored pins on every continent to mark known and suspected jobs of their master criminal in the past seven years. The map was a colorful chaos, to put it mildly.

"No." John appeared thoughtful. "Well, not only that. He's peacocking."

Greg crossed his arms. "For whom, exactly?"

"Don't know. But if we've learned anything, it's he does nothing without multiple purposes."

Sally hummed contemplatively. Reaching out, she picked up another photo to examine. Her dark eyes jumped around, searching. "He is efficient," she agreed. "Why waste time doing many things separately when you can achieve the same results by a single act."

"It's how he has avoided arrest this long, probably," added John.

Greg glanced at the two files on his desk, deluged with everything they had on him. There was a plethora of links and info and tips they managed to pull together over the years. But he had eluded capture like a shadow, appearing in one location, or linked to a crime there at least, only to fall off the grid and reappear elsewhere when a new light of intelligence was cast their way.

Sherlock Holmes was untouchable and untraceable now as he ever was. And for that, John was both immensely relieved and deeply discomfited.


End file.
